


Coloring in

by WahlBuilder



Category: The Technomancer (Video Game)
Genre: Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Falling In Love, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Magic, Misunderstandings, Urban Magic, set Abundance on fire, twenty headcanons in a trench coat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-11
Updated: 2019-08-11
Packaged: 2020-08-19 05:30:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20204527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WahlBuilder/pseuds/WahlBuilder
Summary: Viktor finds out that Vory use a kind of urban magic. And he wants to learn more.





	Coloring in

**Author's Note:**

> With a big hug to Haaska, who reminded me of Papo & Yo, which gave me this idea. And Haaska encouraged me to write all this <3

Anton lies a lot. It’s just a thing, okay, it’s another weapon and armor in this fucking city. He doesn’t lie to his Vory, not usually—unless lying through omission counts. In Ez’s books, it certainly counts.

When Anton tells him about a run-in with The Scary Man, Ez suspects there is something The Boss isn’t talking about. Oh yeah, The Scary Man had to escape from some very hostile people—and Anton happened to be there, and oh no, he couldn’t let his favorite colonel be shot, so he dragged Viktor Dicktor into a courtyard, then took out a paper square, squinted at the buildings, and folded the paper. And of course, the buildings rearranged themselves, cutting off their pursuers and opening a path to a Vory safehouse. Because that’s what Anton does.

Ez knows how this works, and on top of the usual explanation he has his own: Anton is (half) the soul of the city, and like many, he didn’t have a proper childhood—but he does give it to his Vory, right, even those who are officially adults. They carry that... dormant child wonderment in them—and he taught them to tap into it. Anton… he can talk to the city, talk it into helping his kiddies. But he also has good spatial awareness... And he carries pieces of paper with him to fold the city space however he needs.

Ez wishes he could see The Scary Man’s reaction.

> TSM: what... was that?
> 
> Anton: hm? we crossed the border of districts
> 
> TSM: no, I mean... _that_!
> 
> Anton: uh, you mean, me saving you?
> 
> TSM: no, I mean _buildings folding up and moving around!_
> 
> Anton: ah. that. well.

Just. The image of Anton grabbing Viktor’s hand and them running from danger through the city… Then stopping in some back alley, both of them breathless, Viktor trying to say something, but Anton presses a finger to his lips… Or Anton dragging Viktor in a quiet space and pushing him to the wall and pinning him with his forearm, and Viktor looking down at him, out of breath, and there is color on Viktor’s cheeks, and his hair is ruffled, and…

Okay, maybe Ez _does_ sneak a peek into Žal’s novels.

Anton is fucking handsome, okay, _anyone_ would be staring at him. He’s the fucking best. And Ez can imagine it further. Anton’s head is tilted: he’s listening to their pursuers… No, to the city. His arm is pinning Viktor in place, difficult to dislodge (and Viktor doesn’t want to). His fingers are drumming on Viktor’s chest… A rhythm. Anton is listening to the rhythm of the city.

But, however it went, the result is that The Scary Man asked Anton to show him more of this magic, and Anton asks Ez because of course.

Ez tries to be as hissy and all puffed up around Viktor as possible, but he agrees, and they go out to a secluded spot. Ez eyes the wall critically, then goes closer and slaps it. From his hand, painted flowers spread on the wall in all directions, like fireworks. Ez can’t help but show off a little, waving his hands, and the flower stalks extend, repeating his gestures on the wall.

He glances at the colonel with a smug smirk—but it soon falls, because Viktor looks... Well, he looks like he’s watching the most beautiful thing in the whole world.

Viktor steps closer to the wall and reaches out, stroking the colorful swirls. “How does it work?”

Ez glances at Anton, but Anton is watching Viktor. So Ez shrugs, trying not to show just how flattering Viktor’s naked excitement is. “You just feel it. You feel the city. Newcomers can’t work like this. They have to be... Um. It’s a two-way thing, I guess. You can’t force it on the city, you have to... negotiate?” he waves, grasping for words. “Sometimes the city doesn’t want to work with you, because the place is wrong or because it doesn’t want whatever you want to do, or just because of the city’s mood. You have to work together.”

“Ophir is alive,” Viktor murmurs. It doesn’t sound like he’s surprised. Viktor reaches out to the wall.

The flower under Viktor’s touch gives a twitch.

What. The. F— It never happened before! To work on someone’s work, you have to start together... Maybe he’s seeing things.

“Yeah. Problem is, Ophir is very moody and very domineering. You have to um. Give in. But you have to watch out, because Ophir might eat you whole. So far, Anton is the only one who can successfully insult and wrestle Ophir to submission.”

Viktor glances over his shoulder. “I’m not surprised. And here we were wondering how you manage to get away so fast... And turns out, the Vory simply _fold_ the city.”

“Well,” Anton chimes in, and Ez shoots him a glare. Should they spill their secrets to Viktor fucking Watcher? But, Anton continues because of course: “Usually, we use chalk. It’s fast, and doesn’t require lengthy negotiations with Ophir. Paper-folding is my thing, and it’s quite radical, unlike chalk.”

Viktor traces one painted stalk with his finger. Ez would love to bristle—but he actually. Kinda. Likes Viktor’s fascination. Just a little.

“And this. This is your... thing, Ezrah?”

He rubs the nape of his neck. “Yeah. I’m sort of an artist.”

“Oh, young man, this is not ‘sort of’,” Viktor says with certainty. “Can everyone use this power?”

Anton shrugs. “If you manage to make Ophir listen... And you have to create. I think it needs to be an act of creation: a poet, a carpenter, a cook, an artist, a writer... You have to reach into yourself—and then give of yourself to the world.”

“But Ophir is greedy,” Viktor says quietly. “Wants only to take, to use, to _consume_.”

Ez glances again at Anton, but Anton... He’s listening closely to Viktor. How can it be that someone from the Upper Ophir, that Colonel Bastard understands it?

“Yes,” Anton says just as quietly. “So you have to make deals. Force it to give in return. Trick it. Fight it, and fight dirty.”

Viktor turns to Anton, gaze sharp, and even though Ez isn’t the target of that gaze, he shivers.

“How much, Anton?”

Anton shakes his head. “Not here, _mon Colonel._”

Ez wants to know what they are talking about—seriously, these two, with their silent communication.

But then Anton says, “I believe Colonel Watcher was thoroughly impressed by your skills, Ezrah. Thank you, my boy. We’ll be going now.”

And he’s ready to ask what the fuck—but Anton looks at him and there’s something weary on his face. So he just nods and makes himself scarce.

When they return to Anton’s place, Viktor can feel how tense Anton is. He certainly knows what Viktor was asking about. And now that they are alone, Viktor asks again, “How much do you give so that Ophir doesn’t consume them whole? Don’t deny it.”

Anton slouches, and it’s a wrong look on him. “Just paper.”

Both of them know it’s a lie.

“No,” Viktor growls. He won’t let it go until Anton tells him. Does anyone else even know? “Paper is a practicality. There is a skill to it but no spark. What is your true act of creation, Anton?”

Anton works his jaw, and Viktor’s body starts locking up for a fight...

“I can’t write.”

It’s so quiet that he would have missed it, had he not been standing close to Anton.

“I can barely read, and can’t write, and it’s not... It’s different from the original issues I had since childhood.”

It grows, suffocating, the terrible understanding.

“You’ve traded your voice,” Viktor says quietly. “No. No. Shadow, you are a poet, aren’t you? And you bargained your voice—”

Anton looks up sharply at him, his breathing heavy. So angry. “Wouldn’t you? Wouldn’t you have done the same for them?”

“Anton.”

“It said it would be just enough! That it’s... delicious enough,” Anton shudders, “that it would consider not taking them all right away. My voice—for all of them, I say it’s a steal.”

“Anton.”

“And I know, I _know_ we could have done all of it without these abilities, but we need an edge, and they were stumbling upon it anyway, because it’s a common knowledge—”

“Anton.”

“What, what?”

He reaches for Anton, and brushes his face with his fingertips. “I’m sorry.”

But Anton turns his face away, breaking the touch. “You shouldn’t be. I made the deal years ago. It doesn’t hurt anymore.”

Oh, Viktor is sure that the city would find ways to wrench the rusty knife in the wound once in a while, just to show who’s got the better part of the deal. He’s sure it still hurts.

He wonders. He thinks about an old sketchbook, never filled, about pens and brushes, untouched for years, a bottle of ink emptied long time ago. Being offered reasons to give up, then mockery. Then, threats. Foolishness. A waste of time. You can’t even do it right. You will never accomplish anything if you continue. Do something proper. What are you, mad, thinking you are some big talent?..

He steps to Anton and closes his arms around him. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s nothing,” Anton whispers, his hands tearing at Viktor’s jacket, and his breaths warm Viktor’s neck, fast and shallow and wet.

“It’s not.”

Strange, but he misses Anton when Anton moves out of their embrace.

“How... How did you guess that I made a deal?” Anton is heading to the kitchen, and Viktor follows.

“I know our city. And I know you. Does nobody else know?”

“There is a friend... I think he suspects it. But aside from him, nobody. Well, you know, now.”

Anton is moving effortlessly in the low light filtering through the window, and Viktor is glad for the twilight. Ezrah’s work was magnificent, but far too overwhelming for him.

“Ophir likes to be entertained,” Anton says, working through obviously familiar routine of making tea. “That’s why no party usually takes all the power. But I guess my bargain was too good—and then it’s found new entertainment in you and me. I mean, Vory and the agents.”

Viktor doesn’t like the sound of it at all. Put this way, their struggle against each other seems... unnecessary. Something forced upon them.

“Ophir would like to consume you, too, Viktor. Although I can’t say for the Upper Ophir.”

He raises a brow. “There are two Ophirs?”

Anton shrugs again. “More like two faces. You know it yourself.” He snorts. “Those not from Ophir say our city is straight-up crazy. I don’t think they are very wrong.”

No, they are not. “And you can’t work in the Upper Ophir.”

Another shrug. “I know it well, can find my way there—but I don’t _feel_ it well. It’s too ordered and I’m too chaotic for it.”

Viktor smiles. “Oh, you are. You are such a scandal for that perfectly ordered world.” _Viktor__’s_ world.

Anton smirks. It looks better on him than defeat. “I _love_ to inspire scandal. Tea, _mon Colonel_?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

It slows down a little after that. The Vory are busy, and Anton guesses the Bureau is busy, too. The season of parties of the high-and-mighty comes, and Anton goes there because he has to make a few deals. He knows Viktor attends such parties sometimes, but he doesn’t have the chance to look for his colonel—not when a particularly insistent guest is flirting with him. Anton tries to keep this aggressive flirting at bay, deflecting it, but he’s getting tired—

“Oh! You have something on your throat!”

He touches his collar and smiles, happy that they have given him an excuse to retreat. “Forgive me, I shall check...” He nearly runs out of the room and towards the bathroom and opens the collar of his short.

There are flames. Not real flames, it’s his tattoo, having risen from his hip and blazing all over his side.

Viktor. He’s sure it’s Viktor.

Gods, of course. It’s Viktor’s Ophir, and of course he has a connection—but what’s with the flames? Oh, wait, Viktor doesn’t want to see him here, does he? Should Anton leave? Viktor is probably doing it without knowing it, and it might get out of hand.

But he wants to... He wants to show it to the colonel. Show him that he, too, has this ability and, who knows, maybe Viktor would decide to come to him to get help with exploring it...

No, it’s another weapon and he shouldn’t give it to his nemesis.

But that talk they had. It doesn’t leave Anton. Viktor _understands_. Ophir has taken something from Viktor, too, in such a way.

He closes his collar hastily and goes out in search of Viktor. Finds him talking with some local bores, and Anton has to smile with all his charm. “Excuse me, I must rob you of this delightful company.” He glances up at Viktor (gods, he’s so tall; if they kissed—) and nods slightly towards the door.

Viktor frowns, but follows.

He finds the first empty room, away from the party.

“Mr Rogue, what is—”

He turns around, standing in front of Viktor, and starts opening his blazer, and then his shirt.

Viktor’s face goes completely stony, but his eyes... His eyes are blazing. Does he hate Anton that much?

No matter.

Anton pushes the blazer off and the shirt out of the way. “This.”

Viktor’s eyes flick to his enflamed side, and then Viktor tilts his head, expression changing to the ghost of that excitement at Ez’s painting. Only... Different somehow, this time.

And then Viktor reaches out and touches his throat.

Anton bites his lip to keep himself still. It is... not easy. To bear Viktor’s intense attention. It is focused on the dancing flames (dancing over his skin, over other tattoos)—but also on Anton himself.

The cold fingers are a relief on Anton’s heated skin, but they slide down the side of his throat, onto his shoulder—and he feels even more on fire. A side effect of the tattoo coming to life, certainly.

Viktor’s fingers reach his undershirt, and Viktor startles, as though yanked from a dream, and takes his hand away. “Beautiful. But why are you doing it? People might notice.”

“It’s not me.” He realizes he sounds hoarse. He buttons the shirt hastily (and notices a flicker of disappointment on Viktor’s face). “It’s you.”

Viktor frowns. “What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. _You_ are causing it. There’s nobody else in this whole building who’s seen my flame tattoo.”

“But I don’t have the... ability.”

“Everyone can have it, they just have to find how to tap into it, how to work with it. Although I’ve never met someone who could work with another’s body without training. But I guess, since it’s tattoos, technically it’s not body...”

Now Viktor is frowning in a subtle way. Genuinely concerned? “Does it hurt?”

“No. But it might. I’ll leave as fast as I can, my dear Colonel, and won’t be an eyesore longer than necessary.”

He does leave the party as soon as he finishes all his tasks. The tattoo has returned to normal when he checks it at home.

Okay, some people have a strong initial... inclination, but if they don’t work on it, they fall behind their initially less inclined, but persistent comrades. The first time is not indicative of anything. But Viktor didn’t only make the tattoo move—he made it flare up. Possibly even affected Anton’s body, because Anton felt that heat when he was close to Viktor.

Is Viktor’s fury, his hatred that strong?

Anton has caused Viktor’s anger many times, he doesn’t doubt, but this? This is something else. Anger is usually all over the place: when Ez is angry, everything lights up like splattered with paint. It’s too unfocused. But this... This was _concentrated_.

Anton has never been more upset at being hated by an enemy.

And he always thought that Viktor... disliked what he represents, but not him as a person. Not now, not when they know each other so well.

Huh. It seems, not so well, after all.

But hate isn’t exactly compatible with respect, is it? And all those times they— Gods, has he been reading Viktor severely wrong all this time? All the times he touched Viktor, made him tea, all those times Viktor saved his life...

Maybe it’s a recent thing? But, no, that flare of the tattoo, it can’t be a recent thing.

Why does he even care? Viktor can _do things_, so what? Of course Viktor might try to learn to control it, but when he does, Anton will deal with it. Why does he worry about Viktor’s feelings?

...But he always did, since the colonel became more than just an abstract threat.

And it can’t be just hate. Hate is not an “act of creation”. Anger can be harnessed to fuel creativity, but hate is by definition destructive, seeking to undo. Anton knows it well.

What is Viktor’s act of creation? What does inspire him?

The next time they clash, it’s during a raid and Anton has Viktor separated from others and clearly it was some last minute decision on Viktor’s part, because he’s not wearing full armor, and his throat is vulnerable, so all the bett—

And the petals flow across Viktor’s skin from the point where Anton has pressed the knife. As tender as Viktor’s throat. And Anton drags a line, very carefully, down Viktor’s throat—and Viktor’s breath hitches, and the cut bleeds more petals.

Anton feels like he’s losing his mind. Or perhaps both of them are.

“You like it,” he rasps. The half-hearted shootout between the Vory and the agents is a distant memory right now.

Viktor glances at him, licks his lips. “What?”

“You like... the knife.” Or danger. Or fighting Anton—who the fuck knows? But it sends a surge of... heat and heady power through Anton. He’s the one doing it to Viktor. Nobody else.

He turns the blade, moves it higher, under Viktor’s chin, forcing him to tilt his head up. Shame that there’s the turtleneck in the way... What would the reaction be if he fastened his teeth on Viktor’s throat?

“What?” Viktor’s eyes are half-lidded.

Anton flips the knife closed and pockets it, and then takes Viktor’s limp hand, pries the glove off. “Look.” And he lifts Viktor’s hand to his lips and closes them on his index finger (oil and sweat and... cinnamon?)—and then bites slightly.

Then pulls back and watches with satisfaction a flurry of tiny petals flowing into the cup of Viktor’s palm and disappearing.

(It is very logical: cutting Viktor’s finger would bring him days of discomfort, and a bite would go away in an hour or two without a trace.)

“What?” Viktor is turning his hand, as though trying to find where the petals have disappeared to. “How did you accomplish that?”

“It’s not me. Well, not directly.” He steps away, stuffs his hands into his pockets. He’s intruded enough into Viktor’s personal space as it is. “It’s _you_. You are an artist?”

Pain flits over Viktor’s face, fast like those petals, and disappears just as quickly. “No. I’m not.”

“Well. You have the affinity for the visual, in any case. Congratulations. Now, if you want to hone it, you need to find exactly what it is, what you want to do with it, and your inspiration.”

Viktor turns his hand again, a small frown on his face.

Anton realizes he’s still holding the glove. He takes it out of his pocket. “Sorry.”

Viktor picks the glove and pulls it back on. “I need to find what my act of creation is, exactly?”

He nods. “And your, er. Trigger? Your inspiration. What makes you want to create—though ‘want’ is not the proper word. What fuels it? It can be a feeling, a goal, a conviction—pretty much anything. Emotions can be, too, but they are far too unstable.”

Viktor glances at him, then away. “Can it be a person?”

Anton rocks on his heels. Why does it worry him? And why is he telling Viktor all this? But then, to encourage Viktor to create... “Yeah, can be a person, too, or several, or many. Wouldn’t advise to pick just one person, because, well, if you lose them, it would be a disaster for your abilities.”

“How can you pick a source of inspiration?”

“It’s usually spontaneous at first, but you can do some soul-searching and analyze what makes you want to create. There are as many paths as there are people.” He shrugs. “You can wait for a muse, or you can make it your habit, your craft, but in any case you need that spark. It would ebb and flow, your craft, and sometimes you would be dry and miserable, unable to do anything, but...” He shrugs again. “It’s the way it is. Oh, and your source of inspiration can be the craft itself. Some people do it for the kicks, for the sheer enjoyment of doing it. Try to find what works for you.”

He feels, _sees_ on Viktor’s face, in his narrowed eyes, the question. But Viktor doesn’t say anything.

Anton thinks Viktor might, one day, ask about it. About Anton’s own inspiration. What would he reply? _My inspiration is my people. Spite. You_. No, he can’t say that aloud.

Anton tries to push thoughts of Viktor out of his mind. Well, more... personal thoughts. Business as usual, right.

But he lies without sleep at night, turning over and over all the memories in his mind. He thought he was paying close attention, he thought he could read Viktor, he was proud of it. But it seems he was delusional. And, gods, worse, he forced his company, his _touch_ upon Viktor. There is them being enemies, professional—and then there is him stitching Viktor up and having him stay in the guest bedroom and talking him into having breakfast.

Fuck, he’s so stupid. Why didn’t Viktor say something? He made it clear Viktor could always say no, walk away... right?

There’s a ring at the door, and he rolls off the bed. Can’t sleep anyway, and hopefully, it’s work.

But... it’s not. Or maybe it is, but he feels like he doesn’t know anything anymore, because it’s Viktor standing at his door. There’s the gray jacket, but no armor, and, judging by the silhouette, no gun.

“Colonel?”

Viktor winces a little. “I’m—”

Anton steps aside. “Come in first, no use standing on the threshold.” Then he wants to smack himself, he’s forcing Viktor again...

But Viktor does come in, and closes the door. “I’m sorry,” the colonel says again. “Have I woken you up? I... I didn’t think the doorbell would be so loud.”

He shakes his head. “It’s nothing. I wasn’t asleep.”

And Viktor wasn’t either, obviously. He’s a little hunched, stroking a seam on his pants, not looking at Anton. Nervous. “I needed to see you, Mr Rogue. It... doesn’t work.”

He doesn’t ask _what_, because he understands, by the nervousness, by Viktor’s whole lanky figure. Oh gods.

Oh gods, it’s three in the night, and it’s a long, long way to here from the Bureau HQ or from Viktor’s apartment, and the last maglev went three hours ago, and Viktor _walked_ here. Without a gun. Through the third of the Slums.

Fucking. Idiot.

Anton is horrified, but astonished, too. And suspecting that Ophir has something to do with it. They are so _entertaining_, aren’t they?..

“I tried it,” Viktor murmurs, his face impassive, but eyes, though evading Anton’s, are pools of anger and anguish in equal measure. “I think I know what my ‘act of creation’ is—but the... inspiration is not there.”

“You shouldn’t force yourself at this point,” Anton notes. “Clearly it’s not working.”

And then Viktor looks at him. “Could you... help me? Teach me? At least... show me?”

Can he say no? Of course he can, but... _Can_ he? To these wet eyes, this pain in them, and plea, so very human—does he want to shut down perhaps the first spark of something personal that Viktor has had in a long time?

He raises a hand. “There are cookies in the tin on the counter, pack them into something while I get dressed, all right? And the kettle must be still warm, and there is a thermos... somewhere in the cupboards.”

“Are we going on a stroll or...”

He waves. “Can’t take you out without some sustenance, can I? I’ll be quick!”

He puts on his “city” pants, old and scratched but sturdy, his soft shoes, a T-shirt and his black jacket, then grabs the box with chalk.

Viktor is already carrying a small box with cookies and a thermos.

“Ready, dear Colonel? Good. Let’s go.”

“Don’t you need a light?”

“Nope.” He leads Viktor out and into the winding passages that can’t be even called alleys, further and further into darkness, with a destination in mind but not the path. It’s their city and right now it’s intrigued rather than hostile.

“Anton? Could you make more noise, please? I can’t see anything and can’t hear you.”

“Oh. Sorry.” He reaches behind himself and finds Viktor’s hand. It’s just an offering—but Viktor grips it tight.

Viktor’s hand is warm and bony. Gods, Anton intends to feed him all the cookies.

At last they reach their destination, and he lets go of Viktor. “We’re here. We won’t be disturbed, don’t worry.”

“I can’t see anything.” Viktor sounds very worried. The loss of control, not knowing, and it’s not his part of the city... Damn, maybe Anton should have chosen some other place.

“Leave the cookies and thermos on the... Ah, there are crates to the left of you. Yes.” He hears Viktor moving cautiously. Viktor’s shoes click a little, but it’s not his usual beautiful long stride.

“Done.”

“Now...” Anton lowers the box of chalk on the barrel he knows is near him, picks one fresh piece of chalk out of it and goes to Viktor. He finds his hand again and places the chalk into it. “Now, you draw. There is a big wall if you make six... er, no, four for you, probably, steps right ahead.” The chalk leaves a dry feeling on his fingers—but the cold sensation of Viktor’s touch lingers for longer.

“What do I draw?”

He shrugs, then realizes that Viktor can’t see him. He can’t see either. Not exactly, not... with his eyes. But he can _feel_ Viktor. His tall form, his slightly hunched shoulders, his fingers gripping the chalk stick.

“Anything you want. Anything that comes to mind. You don’t have to try to tap into your creativity or into the city even. Just draw.”

He hears a low chuckle. “Mr Rogue, you certainly know that having no constraints leaves one at a loss of direction.”

True. And constraints make Anton want to push at them. He rocks on his heels. “Draw two things: one that we need and one that’s on your mind right now.”

Viktor stays motionless—then walks to the wall. Four steps, yeah.

Anton moves away from the wall, listening.

It’s a very secluded space, and big enough that different lessons can be carried out here: how to draw passages, how to use momentum, how to fold the space... How to make things better. How to make _yourself_ better. There are three boxes of chalk here, and markers, and spray cans, but all of them are used, and he wanted Viktor to start with a new stick.

He listens to the whisper of chalk on the wall, Viktor’s movements short and hesitant at first (probably because of the added difficulty of darkness), but then they become more certain, firm, precise, like the man himself.

Anton tries to guess what kind of things Viktor is drawing. Here is a curvy line, and more, and more. Then Viktor must be turning the stick on the side, to cover a big area. Then he adds quick strokes here and there and there... Then, a pause. Considering his next move? Worrying how to proceed?

No, Anton can just make out movement of Viktor’s long fingers... Smudging the chalk? Searching for the lines with his touch?

Viktor pauses, leans closer to the wall and makes another curved line. Then moves half a step along the wall. The second drawing?

Yes, it seems so. The first one was mostly quick wavy strokes—this one is long curves, with short straight lines clustered at one part of the drawing. Then Viktor turns the stick to the side again but covers the drawing with more circular moves rather than quick and straight.

Then Viktor steps back. “Done.” Like reporting his task, by the gods.

Anton wonders...

And here: part of the wall starts glowing. It’s faint, but getting brighter, like a candle-flame, then bigger, then bigger. It’s still small, illuminating only half of this training yard—but it’s enough.

It’s a drawing of a flame, emitting a soft warm glow. It comes not from the drawing itself, but from the area in front of it. The _idea_ of light, with only the glow surrounding it right here, without the flame itself.

Anton chuckles. It’s so Viktor. “Something we need.”

Viktor is obscuring the second drawing from view, but it can wait, because Viktor is looking at the flame with the excitement akin to the one he showed when Ezrah painted the wall. Only... softer now. “I felt it,” Viktor says quietly, reaching to the flame, his hands all white from chalk. “I can’t describe it, but I _know_ what it’s like. The tools are wrong, though, but... I know.”

Viktor seems to be powerful, even though it’s not his place either, but Anton isn’t surprised. Viktor has a complex relationship with the city, just like Anton himself—and more, he has that untapped, suppressed well of creativity that just needs a little nudge. Or rather, a crack at that wall.

Anton wonders whether he should chip at that wall. If it bursts, how will Viktor survive the deluge?

“Let me look at the— Oh gods, Viktor.” He huffs.

The second picture is a cat, a big fluffy cat standing proud, all long lines, long fur—and a quite combative expression on the big face. What did Viktor have in mind when he drew that?

Viktor smiles. It’s devilish, that smile. “I was thinking about a certain Vor, prowling through the night in his grounds. Ready to fight for his territory and his kittens.”

It takes Anton an embarrassingly long time to realize that Viktor must be talking about _him_. Then he has to turn away and hide his face. “Well. Uh. A cat?”

“You even purr.”

“Do I? I never quite notice.” He clears his throat. “So, you know what it feels like. And right now you were purposeful, you know what you were doing. And by the way, it is amazing, really. I am astonished, Viktor, it must take a lot to be able to draw perfectly in complete darkness.”

Viktor casts his eyes down, stroking the chalk stick in his hands. “It’s nothing. And it’s not perfect.”

“Maybe it doesn’t match the picture in your head—but it’s astonishing in my eyes.”

Viktor grips the stick tight. Has _anyone_ ever said a good word to him about things that have no practical application?

Anton files it away. It’s not his business. Viktor has come for help, not for soul-searching.

It’s nothing personal.

He glances at the cat, and then away. “You were purposeful here—but with my tattoos and the, ah, the petals,” gods, he couldn’t stop thinking about them, “you did that without purpose, but—”

“With the ‘spark’,” Viktor finishes. His eyes are burning with that fire that precludes a hunt, the fire that Anton sees when they clash in their day life.

“Yes. You have the tools—so to speak—you just need to recall what might have prompted that reaction before. What might be your inspiration. Usually, the tools and the inspiration are connected, but rarely in a straightforward way. You said that the tools are not right.”

Viktor looks at the chalk in his hands. “No. Not exactly. I... used to draw, a little, years ago. Certainly not with chalk. Why chalk anyway?”

Anton lets the very unsubtle attempt to divert the topic slide. He goes to the box with cookies, opens it and brings it to Viktor. Viktor frowns in a rather endearing way and lifts his hands. Anton wants to smack himself again. He takes a cookie and holds it to Viktor’s mouth. “They are not very sweet. And not poisoned.”

Viktor glances at him over the cookie—then takes a delicate bite. Then more and more, until his lips touch Anton’s hand. Anton retreats it hastily. (Viktor’s lips are soft and hot.)

“Chalk is easy to find, and you can always improvise.”

Viktor chews, then swallows and says, “And all Vory can use it, even though their ‘act of creation’ might be something other than drawing?”

He takes a bite at a cookie himself. “Even I can draw a basic portal or a sympathetic map. And besides, it taps into the background, well, magic.”

Viktor thinks. “Because _children_ draw with chalk.”

Oh gods, it’s always so exciting with Viktor. Anton feels like he’s connected his mind to another person’s.

“Yes! Because of children. They have the tools, that is, they don’t hesitate to use chalk, and they have boundless inspiration—unless someone tramples that spark. But it’s always thrumming. Adults grow up to put aside their creativity, they are told it’s useless or that it’s nothing. They do things without the spark. But kids are full of it, and it’s always there. The city remembers. The chalk is in the crevices, in the bones of it, all those drawings are still there. The city is alive by them. It’s not alive in a sense like you or me, it’s alive...” he waves.

Viktor smiles. “Because we _think_ it’s alive.”

“And because so many people live here! It’s full of power. And you have to be just a little bit of a child to use it. A sense of wonder, of things being possible just because you _want_ them to.”

Damn, Viktor probably doesn’t want to hear all this. He needs the practicality, the help. Focus, Anton. Don’t prolong it more than necessary.

“So,” he makes himself slow down with all the excitement. “I digress, sorry. The exact tools are not right for you—but it is drawing. Judging by the fact that you felt lost when we walked in the darkness, the place isn’t right either. The Upper Ophir is your place.”

Viktor rounds him and finds a rag with which he wipes his hands, then picks the thermos and takes a swig. “Yes. I am certain that the Upper Ophir is mine. It’s ordered.”

Anton has to tear his gaze away from the sight of Viktor’s throat working. Focus. “But you were still able to do it. What is it? What part of the ‘craft’ side of it made it possible for you to light up this place?” He waves at Viktor quickly. “You don’t have to tell me, I’m just musing aloud and trying to help you.”

Viktor leans on the crates, studying the wall. Then closes the thermos, puts it down, and picks the chalk stick again, then strides to the wall.

Anton holds his breath.

He feels it thrumming in the air, the sense of.. _something_ around Viktor, that something that would allow Anton to pick Viktor’s presence anywhere. He’s always aware of when Viktor is in Ophir and when he’s away, always aware of the general direction of Viktor’s whereabouts. It’s not a concrete feeling, but it’s like... Sitting in the shade save for one spot of light falling on his skin, and that spot on his skin feels slightly warmer.

...And just like with the cat, it takes him a while to realize that Viktor must be thinking about him: the new drawing coming from under Viktor’s precise, certain strokes, is the abstract pattern on Anton’s right forearm.

He looks at the drawing of the flame, too. By the gods. It’s a mirrored version of that tattoo that flared up during the party.

Fuck.

So, it’s... hate? Viktor’s inspiration is hate, personified in Anton’s entire existence? Well, if that’s what works for Viktor...

Why does he feel so sad over it?

They are enemies, nothing more, and hate is expected. They’ve been chasing each other for a long time. He doesn’t feel bad about helping Viktor in such a way. Despite that apparent hate, he still... He’s still fond of him. He shouldn’t be, and he thought they could...

He sighs, then takes off his jacket, the night being too humid. He hasn’t slept for long hours.

As he takes it off, he stops—because the T-shirt leaves his arms uncovered, and currently, his right forearm, the one tattooed on the outside with the pattern Viktor is meticulously drawing on the wall (when did Viktor memorize it?), is alive with colors.

And it isn’t colored, usually, it’s just all black contour lines.

He wonders whether it’s Viktor’s hatred manifesting in such way, trying to find ways to harm him, or to control him.

“Viktor?” He has to repeat the name again, because Viktor is engrossed in his drawing. He holds his arm up, showing it. “It’s happening again.”

Viktor turns to him fully, then moves away from the wall. And touches the tattoo, leaving smears of white chalk, a small frown on his face. “Does it hurt?”

Oh. So it _is_ a way to harm him. Though Viktor sounds worried. Worried that it isn’t working like it should?

“No. It feels... like _you_, but I can’t say clearly, because you are right here and I can’t tell whether I’m feeling...” He stops himself and sighs. “No, it doesn’t hurt. Should it?”

The frown deepens. “No! Not with you. That’s not my intention.” He glances over his shoulder at the wall. “Is it like—you called it—a sympathetic map?”

He shrugs, taking his arm away. “Fuck if I know. But with the flame tattoo, you weren’t drawing when it flared, were you? And the petals...”

Viktor’s face takes that intense, killing expression that Anton has seen only rarely on him, directed towards some despicable politician Viktor couldn’t arrest.

It saddens Anton that all this creativity is fueled by hate.

Viktor turns away, gripping the chalk so tight it creaks—and the flame dims and then goes out, leaving them in darkness. “It’s all useless,” Viktor says flatly. “It serves no purpose.”

Anton presses his lips tight, then asks, because he can’t fucking stay quiet: “Should it? Isn’t doing it for its own sake enough?”

“No. It’s a waste of time.” Viktor sounds mechanical. Not monotone, but as though he’s repeating it after someone.

It’s not Anton’s business. Viktor doesn’t want it, Anton wouldn’t force him. Viktor hates him, that is clear, and if this magic is associated to Viktor with Anton and his Vory, then of course he would want it even less.

But still, that excitement, at what can be done, at what Viktor can do himself... Those petals flittering over Viktor’s skin because he was so caught in the fight that he let go.

Anton can’t push that out of his mind.

“I want to show you something else, Viktor. Just one thing. It won’t be long, and you don’t have to do anything except to follow me. If you are not tired.”

There is the quiet, and he almost suggests to take Viktor back to the more familiar places—but then the cold hand touches his.

He swallows. “Hold tight, then. We will not be taking a conventional path.”

Viktor grips hard. “What about the chalk and thermos and cookies?”

“Don’t worry, we can leave it here, I’ll return after them later.”

He doesn’t need chalk for it, or paper, or anything. He knows where it is, he can always find his way there regardless of what the city is thinking about him at any given moment.

“It might feel strange, so you should...” He falls silent when Viktor weaves their fingers. Well, that’s one way to ensure they won’t lose each other.

It’s dark, but he’s used to it and he can already see shapes, so he closes his eyes.

And steps forward into that place, pulling Viktor after himself.

He opens his eyes and, as always, had to take a moment to just admire the view.

It is a giant spherical chamber, vast like an entire district, the domed ceiling above far away.

They are standing on a floating block of concrete, barely enough for the two of them to stand side by side. Similar chunks, some bigger, some smaller, float by, some quicker, some slower, bobbing slightly in the air. Some float a level above, some on a level below, in a complex dance. A lone iron tree floats by, followed by an isle with a lamppost.

The chamber is darkened now, illuminated only by the ambiance coming from below, the lower part of the sphere,—but the glow is enough to see the centerpiece, hovering and rotating across its central axis very slowly. It’s ungainly a little, strict geometry in the central-upper parts, all chaotic in outer and lower parts. It’s beautiful, in a way, and Anton would admit fully that he’s entirely biased.

“It’s Ophir,” Viktor breathes out. He makes a step forward—then retreats back, hand gripping Anton’s tight.

Anton smiles, the knot that wound itself in his chest when he realized that Viktor’s craft is fueled by hate for him, loosened somewhat. “Mhm, it is. Don’t worry. Just walk forward. You won’t fall.”

And Viktor doesn’t even doubt his words. Lets go of his hand and steps forward in that long stride, and the floating chunks hurry to fall under his steps.

Anton himself waits for another lamppost, and jumps onto it, and lets it float along Viktor’s path towards their city.

Viktor’s face lights up, and the orange and blue of the lights sparkling in the city play in his eyes. “It’s a miniature Ophir!”

Anton chuckles. “Not very ‘miniature’, but yes. It’s a sort of live miniature: it changes as the city changes, down to the smallest detail.” He leans back on the lamppost and taps it, and it flickers off, so that they are not blinded while they explore the city.

Viktor turns his face to him. “It’s _you_.”

He looks away, shifts on his feet. “Yes. It’s... It’s the thing that I was allowed, before I traded away my voice. It’s a poem. A rather, ah, romantic one, I admit, but our city is terribly vain, so maybe that’s why the poem has been allowed to linger for all these years.”

Viktor reaches out to the side—and a red banner flits to his hand, like a half-forgotten blanket, old, and worn, but still splendid. Anton is not surprised that Viktor is adapting so fast—and isn’t surprised that the whole piece apparently loves Viktor, too.

“I wasn’t thinking about any purpose when I composed it,” he says quietly as Viktor runs the thick fabric through his fingers. It flaps away with a chalk mark on the red. “It was my last chance to use my voice. So I did. I didn’t even have a clear plan. It isn’t useful in the strictest sense: sure, you can walk there,” he waves at the city, “and study which parts of some districts were changed. Like you can study color theory on a painting. But it’s not its _purpose_. It’s just here. Existing because I wanted it to exist, _needed_ it to exist.”

A bench wobbles close, and Viktor steps to it, then sits down, facing the city.

The dawn is near, and here it is spectacular in a way that cannot truly be appreciated in the city itself because of all the buildings—unless you get really high up.

“It’s beautiful,” Viktor says quietly.

Anton glances at the city he hates and loves, and all the landmarks, pieces of his memories, idealized parts of the city, floating by.

“It is,” he agrees.

Viktor shakes his head. “No. I don’t mean the city itself. I mean,” he opens his arms, as though to encompass the whole view, _“this_. Your poem. I can feel the rhythm of it.”

He studies Viktor, but Viktor is still watching the city. The poem. It’s been so long since someone appreciated it. Anton comes here when he’s too angry, or when he’s very lonely, or when he needs to hurt himself with the reminder of what he’s lost. But he rarely has the time.

“You can come here whenever you want,” he tells Viktor. “Just... close your eyes and pull yourself to it. Would work better when you are alone. If you want to leave it, push yourself away from it.” He crosses his arms on his chest... “Uh, Viktor, it’s happening again, could you—”

There is a smirk hiding in the corner of Viktor’s mouth. And Anton’s arms are painted watercolor red and purple. He turns them—oh, of course it’s all the way round.

“Viktor!”

And Viktor snickers. It’s a sound that certainly wouldn’t come from the colonel or the director of the Bureau.

Now the red and purple are being covered by quick parallel lines of electric blue that, fuck, that _glows_, and it doesn’t fit within the lines of the tattoos at all.

Anton rolls his eyes. “You are worse than my kids.”

Viktor looks up, and he’s definitely not the colonel now. He is so obviously, blindingly happy and full of himself. Then his gaze drops to Anton’s neck. “Oh, hello, pretty bird.”

Anton gasps for air. “You made my peacock move, you... You... _You_!” But he’s laughing. Oh gods, he’s lightheaded.

“Ah, Mr Rogue, you should sit down, I worry you might fall.”

He licks his lips, narrowing his eyes—then steps right off the lamppost’s little islet.

Viktor’s yelp is _very_ satisfying.

He sits down in an old armchair four levels below Viktor’s bench, and shouts, “You were saying something, Vitya?”

His heart is beating so fast in anticipation—and Viktor doesn’t disappoint: he plunges right off the bench and a piece of a roof zips under his feet. It floats to Anton’s comfortable armchair, and Viktor is towering over him with a smirk. Then Viktor cocks a brow. “You think you are the master here?”

“I’m the cat of my territory,” he purrs in reply—then jumps to his feet, pushes at the piece Viktor is standing on and dives lower, followed by Viktor’s threats to catch up.

And, what would you think, Viktor does catch up with him: Anton is rushing at a slightly chilly speed—and Viktor zips close, staying ahead at the same speed, sitting on a half of a bar, ankle crossed over one knee. “You were saying?”

He rolls his eyes. “I thought theatrics were part of your job, not your personality.” He watches Viktor carefully—for any sign, because any minute now—

He jumps away quickly, falling backwards, when Viktor makes a sudden lunge. “Can’t catch me!” He blows Viktor a kiss, summoning a piece of concrete.

“If you are a cat and I’m chasing you,” Viktor shouts from a piece of—wait, it’s a _tank cannon_, when did... This bastard is _changing_ the poem! And the cannon is carrying bring pink cat imprints all over it! “Then I must be a dog!”

“Woof woof, Colonel!”

Viktor bares his teeth—and Anton smiles his most charming smile. “Oh, sorry, Vitya. I’m afraid I’m needed above.” He taps the side of the concrete block—and it shoots up. He makes a few changes while Viktor tries to catch up, and ends up below Viktor then quickly rises up, and pounces.

The wall he slams Viktor into is very, very convenient.

Anton grins. “Caught you.”

The piece suddenly flips, and he yelps, losing his footing—and he is pinned to the grass, gods know how growing in a piece of Ophir, with a very pleased, very flushed Viktor pressing him down with a forearm on his chest.

He glances over Viktor’s shoulder—and fuck, there is an arrow in chalk dust on that wall he pinned Viktor to just moments ago, pointing down. Viktor is as brilliant in this, as in other things. Such a quick study. Gods, all this power, all this energy—bottled up for so long, and now spouting out. It leaves Anton breathless. Literally.

“No,” Viktor rumbles—thought try as he might to pretend to be the colonel, his chest is heaving, too. “_I_ have caught _you_.”

And then Viktor hand moves up his chest and onto his neck, and he knows it’s about the tattoos that are probably moving like mad and changing colors and whatnot—but his breath catches.

He knows Viktor hasn’t flipped this piece again, but Anton sure feels like he might float or, that the ground is slipping from under him.

He wants to kiss Viktor. Like this, here, in the heart of his joy and pain, of the shard of what he traded away but never let go.

He wants to be canvas for Viktor’s craft, for something Viktor traded away, too, years ago—but it’s still right here. Begging to be allowed out.

He rolls his head to the side. “Well. Hate is a small price for all this.”

Viktor’s hand halts on his shoulder (it’s pleasantly cold on his skin heated by the chase). Then Viktor sits up—but doesn’t move further. “Hate?”

He glances at Viktor. “Yes. Your hate for me. It’s your ‘spark’, isn’t it? It’s okay. I mean, it’s powerful, and combined with the untapped potential you have, the results can be spectacular. It’s not exactly stable, mind, but viable.”

Viktor is frowning. “You think my inspiration is hate?”

He shrugs. Which is a little awkward, being laid out. “Not just in general, but focused on me. You haven’t figured it out?”

Viktor is still for a few moments—then pushes himself away and disappears into the thin air.

Anton is overcome by the sense of loss, something missing from this whole place. The joy that lit it and shook it up and turned the mood from melancholic to playful, isn’t here anymore. He looks at his arms, and they are, too, just black lines without color.

What did he say wrong?

He wonders whether he should follow Viktor. Maybe Viktor is upset his secret is out. Anton doesn’t mind, really. Being hated... It’s familiar to him, even though he didn’t expect it from Viktor in a personal way. But then, it _should_ be expected, shouldn’t it?

He is ready to pick himself off the grass—when Viktor appears over him. “What are you doing here? Come on! Up!”

The piece does lurch, because now Anton is confused out of his mind. “Wha—”

“Up!” Viktor bends down and grips his arm and hauls him—and then they are stepping back into the training yard, and Anton is dizzy because he’s been _pulled_ into it instead of guiding Viktor himself.

And there are more of the lights one the walls, the place lit up with the glow.

“Viktor, wha—” Words die in his throat when he sees how furious Viktor is. Absolutely, in his own way—not outwardly, but his face is set and his eyes are blazing like the flames he’s drawn one the walls.

“You think it’s hate?” Viktor grips a piece of chalk, then strides to the wall—and crushes the chalk into it.

It leaves a white spot—but the dust and pieces don’t fall—they float, and they spread, and soon chalk lines are drawing themselves while Viktor stands a few steps away, shoulders heavy—so furious he must be, and Anton can feel it in the air, like a fire.

He’s never felt it outside—but he knows it intimately, lives that fire through every breath he takes.

He tears his gaze away from Viktor’s back—and onto the drawing, and the dawning recognition makes his stomach twist and fills his feet with lead and does all sorts of things to his heart.

Because the wall—the whole expanse of it, and the adjacent walls, and even floor—they are being filled with the patterns and pictures he knows so well. His tattoos. They are rearranged here, in different sequences, and just in the— no, not only in white chalk now, because the white lines are filled with colors, some following the color of his tattoos, others different.

“Though I’m angry right now, I don’t hate you,” Viktor says in a voice trembling with emotion. “But you are partially right. My inspiration _is_ connected to you. Good night, Mr Rogue.” He steps aside, into the wall—no, into a portal outline in chalk—and the lights go out, leaving Anton in darkness.

But the chalk keeps whispering, finishing the drawing.

Anton doesn’t fall asleep at all. He gets home (nearly forgetting his jacket and the cookies and thermos), checks himself in the mirror before showering—but the tattoos are just tattoos. He stays under the spray for too long, and then lies n the bed, staring up at the ceiling.

He doesn’t get it. At all.

Why was Viktor angry? It wasn’t the poem or the chase—Viktor seemed to enjoy them. He got angry after Anton talked about hate. But Viktor said it’s not hate—and yet it’s still connected to Anton.

Competitiveness? The thrill of the chase? Why his tattoos, though? Why would Viktor want to paint his tattoos—both on his body and on the wall?

And those petals from the knife. How do they fit into the picture?

He walks in a daze for a few days, trying to find the key to the puzzle.

(And Viktor is somewhere in the city, and Anton... misses him. Even a single raid would help—but the agents are quiet. He slips them a tip—but they don’t act on it.)

Then he gives up and goes to Viktor’s office.

Everyone but the night guard shift is gone—and Viktor is here, of course, slaving away. He is unhealthily pale.

And Anton knows that Viktor has noticed him, well, walking through the doors. No magic, no scaling the wall... Not to Viktor’s office, anyway, though he did have to scale the wall to avoid detection by the security.

“Do you need something, Mr Rogue?” Viktor says without even lifting his head from a notebook.

Why is he even here? If he is truthful to himself, he plain missed Viktor. Without him, the city doesn’t feel right. Without the thrill, the threat, the... Gods, without his smile. Anton can’t make himself forget.

He rocks on his heels. “Was wondering how you’ve been doing. No raids, no anything...”

“I have problems besides the Vory,” Viktor says evenly.

Fucker. The _Colonel_ tone.

“Colonel...” he doesn’t know how to finish. He feels shut out, and it hurts, even though he shouldn’t care.

“Besides, I needed time to think,” Viktor continues just as evenly. “And I have found my free time occupied with a particular activity.” He finishes whatever he’s writing, puts the pen down, then closes the notebook. And pushes it across the desk, looking up.

Viktor face has never been as unreadable as it is now.

“Look through it, please, Mr Rogue, and tell me what you think.”

It’s a fairly ordinary notebook, compact, enough to fit into a pocket and carry around. A plain black cover, rounded edges—it wouldn’t fall into disrepair fast.

He picks it carefully. There are no bookmarks, so he has no idea where exactly Viktor wants him to look. He opens it at random.

And then turns the page. Then opens it at the start, and carries it with himself to the sofa set.

It’s ink drawings. Sometimes pencil. All exactly what Anton imagines Viktor’s work would be: precise and very neat, giving the sense that it is as it should be. But looking through the notebook—sketchbook—carefully, he notices that there are imperfections, too. Smudged lines, asymmetry where symmetry seems to have been intended. Some pages are torn out, even.

He recognizes his own tattoos among these many drawings. Viktor must have been working either very fast or tirelessly, to create all these. There are, by Anton’s rough count, about forty of them, and that’s not counting smaller, more sketch-like pieces.

The wall is cracking at an alarming rate.

There are abstract designs, and animals coupled with geometry (a handful of big longhair cats, a couple of sleek dogs), and flowers. Sketches of the city: an iron tree, a bench. A spread with a side view of... No, it’s not Ophir. It’s the Ophir from Anton’s poem.

He closes the sketchbook, and looks at Viktor—who is busy lighting a cigarette, and Anton notices that Viktor’s hands are shaking slightly. Has he been sleeping at all?

“I don’t understand,” Anton admits.

Viktor takes a long drag, then breathes out. “Still? All right. _You_ are my inspiration. Clear enough?”

“I figured that part, thank you!” He closes his eyes tight. He shouldn’t let his temper flare. They are not connecting, that’s all, and maybe they should stop trying, because clearly it leads only to disasters.

“I don’t think you figured anything, Tosha.” Viktor sounds tired suddenly, and Anton is reeling because, wait, _Tosha_, and he looks at Viktor, and Viktor has his elbows on the desk and his forehead pressed to his clasped hands, a cigarette in his fingers. “I wish you hadn’t showed me any of it,” Viktor says quietly. “I can’t bury it back where it belongs.”

He gets up, leaving the sketchbook on the sofa, and goes to Viktor. Takes the cigarette out of his hand. “You shouldn’t smoke when you are this tired. And you probably didn’t eat properly either. You’ll make yourself sick.”

“Who cares?”

“I do.”

Viktor leans back.

Anton takes one of Viktor’s hands, and brings it to his lips and kisses the edge of the tattoo on the wrist.

Viktor looks away. “Don’t.”

But Viktor doesn’t take his hand away, and Anton rubs the center of Viktor’s palm with his thumb... Then unbuttons the cuff and pushes the cloth aside. “Vitya, look.” He strokes the flower blooming from the strict line of the tattoo like from a branch.

In a few breaths, it opens and Anton recognizes a peony, and then it fills with the handsome red and delicate pink in the center.

Viktor is watching it with softness on his features, then looks up. “Do you understand now? You are my inspiration. You showed me all these things, and you look like... like this, and you say such things, and you fight me and pin me down, and I want to draw. You, your tattoos, this whole city, your living poem—all of it. _Everything_. I stand by the window in the morning and measure perspective. It’s all your fault.”

Viktor leans to him and presses his head to his stomach.

Anton strokes the blooming wrist again, then slots his fingers between Viktor’s.

“I visited your poem again two days ago,” Viktor murmurs. “I couldn’t sleep, so I stepped there right from my apartment. And I lay there on a piece of... I’m not sure what, listening to its rhythm, and I was at peace—because it was a part of you that the city couldn’t take away. I want more of it. I want to return it to you and to create this... feedback loop. To inspire you like you do it to me.”

It tugs at Anton’s heart, but he tries to make his voice sound light: “Sorry, Vitya. I guess I robbed you of this revenge, too.”

“We’ll see. Is this what you do in your spare time, Tosha? Luring unsuspecting colonels into the world of colors and words and strange geometry?”

He smiles, strokes Viktor’s head. “This particular unsuspecting colonel is very, very good at that world. So luring him in is certainly worth it.”

“My reputation is cracking.”

“Let’s make a deal: I will leave your reputation untainted, but steal you away from it.”

“Why does it make sense, coming from you?”

He strokes down Viktor’s neck—and Viktor shivers. Oh. Very interesting.

“So, about the knife and petals thing, Vitya...”

“Not telling you anything. Figure it out yourself.”

“You see I’m very bad at it.”

“I think that was a frustrating exception.”

Viktor unlaces their fingers, but then wraps his arms around Anton instead. Anton feels... strangely tranquil. He’s certain he should be freaking out, but it’s not happening for now.

It feels right, as anything ever can be. Not _here_, but with Viktor in his arms. Like when he tries to figure out a solution to a difficult problem, like he tried to figure out Viktor—and then suddenly it clicks and he sees it clearly.

“I am Colonel Viktor Watcher,” Viktor murmurs. “The Director of the ASC. I should be arresting you, I should be doing many things, and certainly _not_ any of this. But I’m tired of sleepless nights when I’m analyzing everything and fighting myself over you. You show me I don’t have to be at war with myself all the time.”

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly, stroking Vik’s shoulders. It must be scary. It is certainly scary for Anton himself, in that vague way that it _should_ be scary. They’d have to fight for this: they’d have to fight themselves, and probably each other, and the city, and Abundance.

He thinks it’s worth it.

“I certainly want to find out why flowers bloom on your skin where I touch you, Vitya.”

***

Viktor doesn’t tell Anton anything about his plan. He does a lot of research, and a lot of experiments, spends entire days in Anton’s poem to add to his research.

He knows it’s eating away at Anton.

Anton is happy helping him develop (and remember) his drawing skills, to find ways to combine them with this craft. And Anton tries to hide his own grief, but Viktor listens and watches, and notices. Anton has given him so much, and they are fighting together, and sometimes Anton has to fight for the two of them, fight Viktor himself for the both of them. So that they could have this. It’s not easy (though at the same time, it is; they are made for each other).

And Viktor wants to return it to Anton. Wrench it away from Ophir.

There is a very real danger that he might not survive it himself, but it’s a minor inconvenience.

So he sets out on his task.

He goes to the poem and wards it carefully so that nobody could get in until he’s finished, so that Tosha couldn’t even feel he’s here. Then he finds a comfortable spot and says, “You know why I’m here. You’re always spying on us.”

The various objects hovering around the city in the center linger for a moment, breaking the rhythm, then resume their motion.

It’s listening. Good.

“Give back what doesn’t belong to you, what you conned off him.”

_Oh my boy. You are still so naive._

He digs nails into his palms, trying to keep his composure. He should have expected it. It’s exactly a thing Ophir would do: take the form of the voice in his head, the shape of the man of his nightmares. Though his mentor has never been this handsome in life, but then, Anton is right: Ophir is disgustingly vain.

He doesn’t move on the bench—tries not to shudder, not to even look at the figure that sits down near him, too close.

He knows well just how cruel, how vengeful Ophir can be.

He thinks of Tosha, his jokes and his cooking and waking up in his arms, the scenes... Tosha’s _“You are mine.”_

The fear eases out a little.

He stares straight ahead. He would not give _this_ shadow the satisfaction of showing his fear. “I’m not a boy. And this is not about me. This is about what you took from him.”

_Ah, but he gave it himself, willingly._

“No. You deceived him. His people don’t need your favor or your protection—_you_ need _theirs_. He is strong enough to destroy you or to keep you together—whichever he wishes.” He summons the image, the feeling, the taste of Tosha’s anger. Not consuming Tosha, but being harnessed by him, used by him.

_I_ _’m afraid it isn’t possible. What is given, cannot be returned._

He clenches his teeth—and then turns to face it. “You misunderstand. This is not a negotiation—this is an ultimatum.” He studies his mentor’s face—perfectified by Ophir’s vanity and sharpened by Viktor’s own fears, the shadow of his memories.

But he’s not afraid of shadows. He fights them—and embraces them. Tosha wears shadows like a mantle.

“You will return it to him—or I will move to Noctis.”

The figure straightens up._ There? To that peacocking, meretricious—_

“Or to Shadowlair. The AllLights Square is magnificent.”

_How dare—_

He smiles, cutting in: “And I will take my family, and I will take Anton and his kiddies, _all_ of them and their whole families, their friends—they’d have a much better life away from you. Oh, and I will take your favorite toys, the Mancers, too. And as many of others as I can persuade or blackmail.” He leans forward, baring his teeth. “You will collapse, you _fuck_. You are nothing without us. You are not Ophir—_we_ are, and without us, you don’t exist.”

It shrinks and pales and wobbles until it’s just a flat shadow, dripping off the bench.

Viktor leans back, settling himself comfortably, even though his heart is beating in his throat—not in fear, not anymore, but in anger. That joyful anger that carries Tosha through the hardest fights. That spite.

_What would he use it for?_

“None of your business. Give it back.”

_Why isn_ _’t he asking himself?_

“None of your _fucking_ business. Give it back.”

_He gave it willingly!_

“Give it back.”

_I will stop covering for him and the Vory!_

“I’m waiting—but my patience isn’t endless.”

_Why do you even care?_

Because he loves Tosha. Because he wants Tosha to create again in full, he wants to hear Tosha’s voice. “None of your business. Now! I already called the sandsails.”

_You can_ _’t! I made you what you are!_

He smiles, his slow, predatory smile that sends people screaming. “Am I not a good student, my mentor? _Now!_”

The poem is silent. The wards will fade if he is felled, and then Tosha—

_Fucking hell, you two have always been a handful._ It is a different voice—and yet the same voice. The two-faced city, existing between extremes, cruel and tender, cold-blooded and hot-headed...

_All right. You leave us no choice. He always had it, you know. We could never take it away fully. We just put it to sleep._

He huffs, glad that he’s sitting already, otherwise his knees would have given up. “You should try to be less pompous. Haven’t the Vory taught you anything?”

_Oh yes, they throw the best block parties._

_...We want him to sing, too. He sings us so wonderfully._

He rolls his eyes. “And you call Noctis peacocky?”

_Shoo. Go to him, he_ _’s ready to gather a rescue party._

He gets up. Though he isn’t sure how exactly he—

_And kiss him for us. We always wanted to do that, but he has eyes only for you._

...As Tosha says, by the _gods_.

He stumbles out of it... somewhere. And right into Anton’s arms.

“Vitya! Where have you—”

He takes Anton’s face and kisses him hard. There are some cheers (and Ezrah’s “Get a room!”), but he doesn’t exactly care. He licks into Tosha’s mouth dirty, then throws his arms around him and drops his head on Tosha’s shoulder.

“Sweet thing, you are not sweet, you taste like concrete and steel.”

He smiles. “I won’t ask how, exactly, you know what they taste like.”

“Good. Don’t ask.” But Anton is holding him tightly, too. “Where have you been? You just disappeared!”

“I will tell you everything if you take me home right now.” He leans back.

Tosha looks over his face, then narrows his eyes. “Vitya. I think I know who you were with. That bastard...”

He smiles again. He feels drunk, a little. In a very, very good way. “I’d like you to make flowers bloom on me, and I’d like to make colors dance on your skin, _right now_, and if you don’t—” He doesn’t finish the sentence, because Tosha pulls him through a cut in the air right into his apartment.

To the bedroom, to be exact, and uses his momentary disorientation to push him onto the bed and then pin him by the wrists.

“I am _very_ interested in your tale and your offer, my sweet,” Anton purrs.

Viktor licks his lips and hooks his legs on Tosha’s hips. “Colors now, the tale later.”

Tosha looks contemplative, then bends down, and Viktor arches up into the kiss, then breathes out, “Tosha.”

Tosha smiles down at him. “Vitya.”


End file.
